A Mother's Observations
by buildmeapyramid
Summary: .:Spanking the Monkey Contest entry:. I've known from the get-go that my son prefers men. But lately he's bein' sneaky, and I've been hearin' awful strange noises from his room at night. Should I be concerned? Slash, wankage, inappropriate ogling, etc.


Contest entry for Spanking the Monkey! For additional contest entries, please visit: www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/~spankthemonkey4u

Title: A Mother's Observations

Name: buildmeapyramid

Pairing: Jasper/Peter

Rating: M for, well, er, you know *cough* wankage *coughcough*

Disclaimer: SM owns it all. Damn her.

A/N: This entry probably—well, actually definitely—won't win (have you seen all the absolutely amazing entries?) but when I heard about this contest, this idea hit me like a frying pan and I had to write it regardless of how off-the-beaten-track it is. I hope you enjoy anyway! My own mama is the inspiration for Mrs. Whitlock (but I'll never tell her that, she'd whoop my hide till it was raw if she knew what I was writing lol).

/ \

Jasper and I live on an old ranch just out of Houston. It belonged to his daddy up until his death a few years back, God rest his soul, and now we make it by on our own with the help of a few farmhands and our herders, Maria and Peter. All the men say it's powerful bad luck to have a girl rope the cattle, but I never did believe in such nonsense. Maria's damn good at what she does, and if she happens to wear a skirt to the county fair, then so be it.

As for her brother Peter, well, I haven't heard him speak more 'n two words in the space of an hour, but he's strong and he's quick, and he's good with the horses. A horse whisperer as my dear husband would've put it, but like I said, I don't believe in any of that superstitious tomfoolery. I just say he sneaks them beasts sugar cubes when I'm not looking.

Today's the same as any other day. I make breakfast for everybody and afterwards Jasper heads out with Peter and Maria to look after the cattle. Seth, that sweet boy, sticks around for a while to help me clean up the mess on the table while Garrett runs into town on an errand for me. The rest of the hands file out the door to their various chores, and after an hour or two I figure I'll ride out on my mare just for the fun of it. Dr. Cullen says I shouldn't be ridin' with my old brittle bones, but what does he know? I doubt that man could tell one end of a horse from the other.

The Texas sky is bright and deep and warm, and I can feel the sun beatin' on my face even with my hat on. I've got on my old blue jeans and a checkered shirt, and I love the way the wind keeps me cool even with the heat. Jasper's daddy always did like these midday rides through the fields. Lordy, how I miss that man.

When I find the three of 'em herdin' in Heather Pasture, Jasper's got his hat hangin' down his back instead of on his head like I done told him to wear it, and his shirt is plastered to his sweaty skin as he rides around the far end. He'll come home this evenin' complainin' 'bout sunburn, and like a good mama I'll tell him to put his big-boy britches on and quit whinin'.

Maria, the little hellcat, is runnin' circles round one of them poor beasts, and Peter's workin' the left flank of the herd like he was born to do it. I can see Maria's pretty black hair whippin' behind her, and Peter looks mighty fine with them chaps on and sweat runnin' down his neck. If I were twenty years younger . . .

I watch 'em for a couple minutes before they notice me, and Jasper waves before shoutin' somethin' I can't hear to Maria. She shouts somethin' back and Jasper reins in, headin' for me, but I scowl and yell, "Get your ass back there, boy! I didn't come for a parlor visit!"

My baby laughs at me and steers away again, guiding his horse back to the cattle, and I wait 'til they've got them rounded up and through the gate. Then the three of 'em turn and head back toward me, Peter ahead of the other two.

All three of 'em look bright-eyed and frisky as colts, and it brings to mind my younger years when I was the queen of the county, struttin' round the place and bringin' all the fellas to their knees. I was a fine piece of work back then. And now I get to watch my Jasper do the same as me. Yeah, you heard me. My boy likes the country boys, not the country gals, and I love my boy, don't let anybody tell you different. If he'd rather have the hot dog than the bun, fine by me. I never did take to the idea of grandkids. Jasper was plenty enough for me, and I'm too old to deal with young'uns now.

"Mama, what're you doin' out here?" Jasper grins at me with them damned dimples his daddy gave him, and it makes my heart melt, same as always.

"What? I cain't come to see my baby boy work the cattle when I get lonesome?" I fire back, and his grin widens as he ducks his head, lettin' them wheat-colored curls fall in his face. That boy really will make me an old sap with them big brown eyes blinkin' at me every minute of the day.

"'Course ya can, Mama," he answers bashfully.

Peter parks his horse's rear by the fence and clambers from the saddle, wiping his forehead with the back of his head. "Hey, Mrs. Whitlock."

"Boy, the next time you call me that I'll get out my willow switch," I tell him sternly.

"Sorry, Mrs. Whitlock," he smiles.

I glare at him and when he shrugs, I cain't help but laugh and reach over the fence to ruffle his hair. "You're a rascal."

Maria gives a toss of that shiny black hair and eyes Peter like she would a slug. "Ain't he though?"

I grin and wink at Peter as he slips outta his shirt, crumpling it into a ball to wipe the sweat off his face and chest —really, if I'd been born a little later . . .—and from the corner of my eye I see my baby boy bite his lip like a dog would a bone. And I wonder.

/ \

It's later that night when the truth finally hits me. And I rather wish it didn't.

It's late, maybe a bit after midnight, when I wake up. The house is quiet—everybody's in bed—and I cain't for the life of me figure out why I'm awake in the first place. Well, until I hear it. Or, more specifically, hear _him._

Why on earth is Jasper makin' them kinds of noises?

I sigh and climb outta bed, plannin' on knockin' on his door and tellin' him to hush up. My door creaks when I open it, and it's silent for a moment before the noises start up again, muffled grunts and groans and the like. If I was a bettin' sort of woman, and if I didn't know my Jasper at all, I'd say those sounds came from somebody doin' _that _sorta business. 'Course, I _do _know my Jasper, and he's not the sort to do anythin' like that, 'specially not under my roof. He knows perfectly well I'd beat him 'til his ass was raw.

His room is just down the hall from mine, and when I reach his door I see it's cracked open just a bit, showin' a sliver of his bed. The sheets are twisted and the moonlight from the window turns them pure white. I can see the better part of his foot stickin' out, and there's a rustlin' sound along with those strange little sighs and grunts he's makin'.

I peek further in, seein' more of his foot, part of his leg, and with the light shinin' the way it is I could swear he's sweatin' in there. He's alone at least, like I knew he would be. My boy wouldn't dare try 'n sneak somebody in.

Those noises are gettin' louder, and there's a wet sound, like slippery skin rubbin' against somethin' wet. It sounds like sex to me, only, like I said, he's alone.

And that's when it hits me. And damned if it don't hit me like a fryin' pan to the noggin. I really ought to move now, before somethin' real bad happens, like he starts sayin' names or bangin' against the headboard.

But somethin' keeps my feet planted in their spot by his door, and I swear I ain't cryin'—I swear it—but my little Jasper, my precious baby boy is . . . touchin' himself.

My face screws up and I press a hand to my thumpin' heart—no, I ain't cryin', I swear it—as his voice grows louder. I should've known what's goin' on. He's seventeen after all, plenty old enough to know what goes where. But the thought never occurred to me that my sweet, tender-hearted boy had those feelings. It simply didn't register in my mind.

And now he's-he's makin' these noises, and I wonder if maybe I should just walk down the hall to my bedroom and pretend I never heard nothin'. But then he mumbles somethin' just quiet enough to catch my ear, and I'm thinkin' maybe I really should go to bed before I hear somethin' I will never be able to unhear.

After all, it's one thing to know your baby boy knows what to do with them parts; it's another thing entirely to witness it with your ears in the middle of the night.

So I really am fixin' to just skedaddle right back to my bedroom and pretend this never happened. But then I hear a thump, another noise that would make my own mama turn red as a beet, and a name gasped far too loud in the quiet of the house: "Peter."

Shit.

That's it.

He cain't be sayin' names s'loud—and Peter's, of all fellas!—and he cain't be makin' them noises. He ain't no donkey, but he sure is brayin' like one, and such sounds can only be meant for the honeymoon and Lover's Lane. Not under my humble roof, ain't no way mister.

So I steel myself, swallow down any silly little sappy thoughts—no, I ain't cryin', I swear it—and bang on his door as loud as I can manage without wakin' the Lord himself, and I call out loud 'n clear as the door swings open in time for me to catch a downright hilarious glimpse of my baby boy's bare ass before he tumbles off the bed in a pile of blankets and limbs. "Jasper, you keep them noises for your weddin' night and no other!"

"Mama!" he squeals, like some little outraged piglet, but I'm already turnin' around and headin' back to my room.

I almost wanna laugh at the spectacle my boy made of himself, but I sober up real quick-like when I remember what he was doin'. Honestly, I don't need to hear such things. I might be makin' him a room in the barn with the other animals if he keeps up them noises. Right next to the donkey, wouldn't that be fittin'? But not under my roof, no sir-ee.

/ \

At the fair a few weeks later, I ain't surprised when I see Peter and Jasper dance around each other like skittish fillies. I ain't surprised when I see Peter sneak up behind Jasper while he's in line for the ferris wheel and slip somethin' into my boy's jean pocket. I sure ain't surprised when I catch them in a tangle of kisses and jeans on the back of my old pick-up.

And they ain't surprised either when I tell them to scat and save them kisses for when they're old enough to know how to do the job right without bumpin' noses.

They do scat, right off to get back to it behind the hot dog stand, and I shake my head at 'em.

But I ain't cryin. I swear it.

/ \


End file.
